


Flowers for Thought

by chucks_prophet



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Flower Shop, Castiel & Meg Masters Friendship, First Meetings, Florist Castiel, Funeral Director Dean, Humor, Light Angst, M/M, Opposites Attract, Tattooed Castiel, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, flower shop owner castiel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-10
Updated: 2018-02-10
Packaged: 2019-03-16 10:11:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,108
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13634181
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chucks_prophet/pseuds/chucks_prophet
Summary: “Oh, um, no, I’m not married. I'm a director.""Oh nice. What do you direct? Movies, TV?""Funerals, actually."





	Flowers for Thought

Cas likes to have control.

He doesn’t suppose that makes him extraordinary, though some might disagree seeing he’s painted in ink from neck to toe and wears his hair a different color every day. (Today’s special is fuchsia.)

But despite what he or she who casts the first stone may say about him, Cas isn’t looking to seek attention. In fact, the whole reason he’s invested in tattoos is because they’re something he can control. He can’t control what people say about him, that much was proven when he came out to his parents in his late twenties, and he can’t control what happens to him beyond, like, his teeth rotting out of his head, but he can control what he wants on his body.

And they’re just so gorgeous. It’s like he’s wearing his story as a cape, wherein he’s the hero and the world is the villain. They give him confidence that he can defeat anything that comes his way.

This is also why he got into gardening. He can’t control where the sun’s rays decide to hit, or the direction of the wind, but he can control what rises from the ground, which is pretty _fucking cool._ He’s planted everything from marigolds to snapdragons—and he sells them all too, right in this very shop.

Though most customers don’t have the same passion he does, usually dropping in for a quick or future fix to a major leak in their relationship, he still seizes every opportunity to talk about flowers when he can. Most people nod politely and try to get him to stop talking, but Meg listens. Or she’s _paid_ to, anyway.

"New ink, Clarence?"

Cas looks at his right forearm and a smile unfolds from him like a blooming daylily. "Kinda. I'm just gonna leave this one an outline. Jack's starting to dig coloring books, but he blows through them like water, so I dedicated to give him a reusable one. He really likes lilacs."

"Novak, you're so sweet it makes me sick."

"Maybe all this pollen's getting to my head.”

Meg folds her arms over her small body. "If this is another one of your plans to release the bees..."

" _One_ time," Cas points out, "and we should be thanking them. Our business relies on their dutiful services."

"I'll remember that next time my male primary has to pull out a stinger lodged in my left asscheek.”

"That's the spirit."

Meg rolls her eyes as a new patron walks in, who Cas actually gets to _see._ Most wander around, completely clueless as to what flowers they’re looking for and settle for one that probably _doesn’t_ mean what they want it to. Like white carnations—then you’re just _asking_ for trouble.

They probably also want to avoid talking to Jacoby Shaddix’s brother, but this guy. This guy walks straight up to the counter and asks for, of all things, white carnations.

“Um, straight back,” Cas replies, caught off guard.

“Easy enough,” the man says and if Cas didn’t know any better, he’d think there was a laugh somewhere in there. If it was, it was a strangled one. “Thank you.”

“No problem,” Cas replies, smiling cordially.

The man turns, suede shoes hitting the worn tile with rehearsed steps. When he finds the carnations, his face doesn’t even twitch. He doesn’t seem sad, but he doesn’t seem cold. He just seems robotic, almost.

Cas gets the register ready by the time the man returns with two dozen white carnations. “That bad, huh?” he asks, trying to get a rise out of him.

“Excuse me?”

“The fight, with your… wife, I’m presuming.” Cas adds the last part for his own curiosity, because the guy’s not a stranger to good looks. He has sandy brown hair parted down the left so perfect it tops the most dedicated child trying to keep his peas and his chicken parmesan separate on his dinner plate. It’s no surprise there’s not a trace of stubble on his square jawline, and if there was, it’s been shaved. His lips are large and pink, making the freckles around his nose stand out. His suit is also a stark contrast from his skin, which is much lighter than Cas’s.

His eyes are the most interesting: They’re like green chrysanthemums, which translate to good health, fortune, you name it. Green in general for any flower is a good color. But there are flecks of yellow around his pupils too, which translates to sorrow. “Oh, um, no, I’m not married. I'm a director."

"Oh nice. What do you direct? Movies, TV?"

"Funerals, actually."

Cas snaps his mouth shut as quick as it opens. He feels like a Venus flytrap, trying to catch something good in his mouth to give back to the guy. "Well, white carnations are a good choice,” he ends up fibbing.

“Yeah?”

“No, not at all,” Cas breathes, laughing nervously, “Actually, um, in your case, yeah. White carnations often symbolize death for that exact reason… but you know they also represent good luck. And love, because of weddings, so maybe they’re not _all_ bad. In Japanese cultures, white carnations can represent innocence, and—your total is $53.80.”

Blessedly, the man hands Cas his card.

“Do you need help carrying them out?” Cas asks after ringing him up.

“I’ve had to haul people into caskets. Flowers are the least of my worries.”

Cas isn’t sure if he’s supposed to laugh or strap on a serious face, so instead, he settles for an awkward salute as he watches the man leave.

“Dude,” Meg says, creeping up next to him again as she slaps Cas’s shoulder, “he was totally hot.”

“And totally unavailable.”

“What?! He ruled out that he wasn't married. He may have a boyfriend or girlfriend, but probably nothing too serious.” Meg pauses. “Actually, maybe it’s _too_ serious. He does seem kinda intense.”

“Exactly,” Cas says. “And I don’t need serious. I gave up serious for Lent.”

“You’re not even Christian, Clarence.”

“Is anybody _really_ Christian?”

Meg rolls her eyes. “ _Anyway,_ all I’m saying is you’re bound to catch a chill working with dead bodies. What he probably needs to thaw him out is, you know… a _warm_ body.”

“Meg!”

“Clarence, think of the bees.”

Cas drops his chest along with his point. He can’t argue with the bees. “Fine. I’ll find him—but _not_ to bang him. I just wanna make sure he’s okay.”

“Well not in front of everyone at a service!” Meg defends. “I meant, like, in a casket or something. I’m sure they rent those out for decent prices.”

“Have you no shame?”

Meg pretends to mull it over before replying, “No, not really.”

But maybe Meg is right. Well… not _entirely,_ but what he chooses to hear is a conflict between sitting still or taking control. And if it’s one thing Cas has learned, it’s to his own personal benefit to go with the latter.

That and Dean forgot his receipt. It’s only fair to bring it back to him.

 

 

 

Dean likes to have control.

He doesn’t suppose that makes him extraordinary, though some might disagree when he already literally has people’s lives _and_ afterlives in his hands; it’s hard to find a job with more control than that.

The family business, as their dad refers to it: Embalming People, Planning Things. John loves the business. He loves watching the services and helping with the speeches. Dean figures it’s a byproduct of his mom’s death, him reliving her service through others’. Sam, his brother, has always been good with the initial meetings with clients. He’s very sympathetic, which, looking at it from that business perspective, is great for revenue.

But Dean, as good as he is at the job, isn’t sure where his forte lies. He supposes he’s always been more in the background than center stage. Sending out obituary notices, gathering decorations, embalming people—you know, the usual.

It’s not a bad career, but it’s a stable one. He was lost after high school like most people, not knowing who he was or what to do—lacking that control he so desperately craves. So he took it where he could.

Dean’s about to sit in the front empty pew when a stream of light casts over the aisle. It takes the retinal stars behind his eyes a moment to realign when Dean turns to see the florist from earlier, peeking through the entryway. “Hey. I, um…” He steps inside a little more and looks around and that’s when Dean sees the basil plant in his hands. “Sorry, I didn’t know when the service was starting. I just wanted to drop this off.”

“Is that basil?”

“Yeah,” he replies, rushing a little in his stride as he moves towards Dean, “Basil represents peaceful rest and happiness into the afterlife. I figure whoever died could use a good send-off.”

“From who, Oberon?”

Dean immediately regrets the words as soon as they come out, because the man’s mouth drops and his blue eyes look like they’re drowning in their own sea. “I-I mean, I can come back another time…”

“I’m sorry,” Dean expresses, rubbing his face with his index and thumb, “I appreciate them, thank you. And the service isn’t until an hour from now, so you’re alright. I didn’t catch your name earlier.”

The man’s face softens as he lends out his hand. “Cas.”

“Cas,” Dean says, trying out the name on his tongue as he shakes his hand, “nice to meet you. I’m Dean.”

“I figured—not that I Googled local funeral homes, but it did show you as the—here’s your receipt.”

“Oh, thanks. That’ll be helpful for the books.”

“You do the bookkeeping?” Cas asks after Dean pockets it. Setting the basil down, he takes a seat to the right of Dean. Dean follows suit.

“Yeah,” he responds, “among other things. Except makeup. I’d just make them look like Steve 'Sting' Borden after a match."

"Was that a... _wrestling_ reference?" Cas asks, the right side of his lip folding into a half-dimpled smile.

Dean clears his throat, "I mean, not that I follow wrestling. Even if I had time, people just keep dying and..." He hangs his head, surrendering to the embarrassment coating his cheeks.

Cas reveals some teeth in his smile in lieu of a response, so Dean supposes his self-induced mortification isn’t all for naught.

Cas is stupidly handsome. He has shaggy brown and purple hair shaved on the sides and long on the top. He has a nice beard going and instead of that white, see-through V-neck, he’s donning a dark blue tie with a beige blazer over a light blue blouse rolled up past his elbows, exposing his tattoos, which he wears tattoos the way Liberace wore his rings: Like they’re going out of style, _but_ with the elegance of an artist. Dean’s not even a big tattoo guy himself. Growing up in a highly religious family ruled out even the _idea_ of getting one.

“Hey, look, I'm sorry if I came off an asshole earlier... I’m just…” Dean stops to mull it over and is surprised by what he finds: “I actually don’t have a good excuse. Maybe I’ve just spent too much time around the dead and too little time around the living.”

“Human interaction is tricky,” Cas says. “I spend most of my time around flowers. And my son, but kids aren’t really human, are they? I mean, they shed their teeth and shoot up from the ground at supersonic speeds.”

“Plants can be terrifying too, though,” Dean says. " _Little Shop of Horrors_ proved that to me.”

Cas shrugs. “Venus fly traps aren’t too bad. Just don’t put your finger near them.”

“I’m afraid to ask if you’re joking.”

Cas smiles even wider until his top lip folds into his mouth, exposing bright pink gums, and Dean doesn’t know what comes over him. Suddenly, he just feels an overwhelming… well, _overwhelm._ So many years he’s spent sifting through the motions, leading a monotonous existence, relating closer to the people whose services he coordinates—pale, emotionless.

He kisses Cas.

“Sorry,” he immediately amends, not even looking at Cas’s face. “I shouldn’t have—thanks for the basil.”

He sweeps up the plant, but before he can take off, a strong hand on his wrist pulls him back. The basil pot falls and shatters, but Dean barely registers anything over Cas’s lips on his again.

He smells sweetly of flowers and tastes even more so like honey, and despite this probably being the least appropriate place to do this, they keep at it, anyway—taking control, for once, over their lives.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Cas's look was inspired by this. Warning: You may be rendered temporarily blinded by the beauty looking directly at it:
> 
> https://78.media.tumblr.com/a7172556efbead86c73e93619b2f9852/tumblr_p25joggFXc1s4fxsmo1_r5_500.jpg


End file.
